


raspberry glue for the cracks in your soul

by enlaurement24



Series: any way you want me, i'll be yours [1]
Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Stress Baking, Wig!, but like from the side, edwina ships it, i love you Mrs.Yang, i love you mrs.chen, nailcare!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enlaurement24/pseuds/enlaurement24
Summary: It's so much worse at night. There's no rhythm to how Eddy comes to watch him. Most of the time he slides down the wall by the door, head in his hands, has the quietest existential crisis Brett has ever heard.Brett had said, I can love you.(Brett holds Eddy's hand blindly, he doesn't know anymore, but he'll wing it. The way they do.)
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Series: any way you want me, i'll be yours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748395
Comments: 35
Kudos: 140





	raspberry glue for the cracks in your soul

It takes an embarrassingly long time for Brett to figure out that Eddy probably wants to fuck him into any close-by surface. 

He hasn't paid attention to the way they touch in years, has already accepted Eddy's body as a limb of sorts, wholly uncontrolled and slightly more coordinated than Brett is anyway. He only keeps track of the space between them, the static electricity of it, the little cues and words it contains, and if their elbows or knees or shoulders knock in the process, it's out of familiarity and comfort, sometimes out of Brett's readiness to be unbearable. He never had the conscious capacity to notice or memorize his own anatomical shifts by sight, even less another's, and so he carries Eddy's every version on his skin, every change in size and width and depth, every time an angle softened, every sharp variation of him, with or without violin, bruised into his muscles. It's like tuning twice removed. 

It freaks him out to think that Eddy does this as well, but he must be, by the mildly panicked confusion on his face when his fingers graze the shorter ends of Brett's new haircut two or three days after he gets it usually. It only lasts a moment, he runs his hand once over Brett's head to calibrate, smooths out his fringe, awkwardly pets his own hair to remind himself. Says 'it's nice, hey' every time. 

Brett barely registers the contact anymore, only reads whatever Eddy might need out of him, to right a messy intro, to come easy when Eddy laughs himself to tears, hand searching blindly for Brett's arm, to check four times if the camera's recording, to keep him upright the day after his insomnia kicks back up again. To get him the right kind of bubble tea, take his violin away and hold his hand through the bouts of inexplicable frustration. 

So by the power of habit, it takes a while. 

He notices the looming weeks after it starts. Brett isn't ticklish, but the back of his neck is particularly sensitive, even more so in a vulnerable moment of just having opened the fridge door with ice cream on his mind. Eddy's breath of hot air behind his ear makes him want to yeet himself right out the window, he tries to sidestep but the dumbass is hunched over him, arm shoved in the fridge looking for _something_ , and Brett is efficiently caged between appliance and wanker. It clicks suddenly that Eddy seems to have grown three centimeters extra and a very specific forgetfulness of their body proportions and movement dynamics, when they're alone. Brett had been smacking into him for longer than today, felt any room they're in halved, felt like he's being tripped on purpose by a very needy cat for days already. They're right back to that summer when Eddy went from cute to painfully lanky, only this time there's no growing into it, guessing by the way Eddy doesn't give even as Brett pushes at his chest with more than mock annoyance. 

Looking back, the fridge incident was probably one of the less obvious hints. It's just. Brett knows Eddy down to his fingernails, so he's accustomed to the stranger pursuits, doesn't think twice when Edwina shows up with a sort of possessed frequency.

It's definitely her that greets him at the door in the mornings, wig unexpectedly brushed and shirt scrunched up right under sternum leaving ribs he knows to be ticklish in full view. She pushes him inside, feeds him terribly burnt toast and an excessive amount of smoothies, destroys him in Super Smash Bros with a decisiveness that Eddy lacks. And if her legs are in his lap the whole time, if she checks carefully the violin bruise under his jaw, if she laughs whole bodied at anything he says, if she stays stuck to him skin on skin the entire day through december heat, Brett isn't going to mind any of it. 

('Are we like, weird handsy with each other or no one else actually has a best friend in uni' he remembers Eddy asking in the dark one night, when they had just got home from the club, buzzing and sweaty. 'It's dumb, man. We do whatever we want', Brett had replied, mind dripping distorted anger and hot defiance.)

Eddy gets like that sometimes, tripped up and stuck in his own process. When Brett had first worn the wig, the original wig, frizzy blonde as well, for a gag lap dance on Eddy's twentieth birthday, he didn't think much of slapping it onto his violin case after he was done, didn't expect he'd see it again. Except he did, not two weeks after, and not in the photos their friends had taken as blackmail material either. Eddy had very calmly walked into Brett's house, pulled it out from his backpack, carefully arranged it over his hair, clips and all. 

And then screamed and screamed and _screamed_.

Right out the window, with a deranged passion, from deep in his chest, not one word but just mindless, blood curling screaming. It's not everyday that your best friend randomly goes batshit crazy, so Brett had barely noticed Eddy's split lip or his wet eyelashes, too spooked to do much but stare pressed against the wall, inching closer to the door, desperately brainstorming ways to explain any of this to his mum upstairs. 

He doesn't want to count that as Edwina per se, but it must have been her, newborn. She grew within Eddy and matured.

Sometimes Brett feels like a tiny pet in her hands. She's soft with him, tactile and protective, a well of pent up fondness. He considers Edwina to be Eddy's means to speaking his mind when his own words are too offensive, when he's hurt enough to insult people to their face and have them accept it without question, blinded by the running gag that she is, when he wants to exist outside his binds. Brett used to think of her as cowardice, but the key here is that there's ever _only_ Eddy. 

While they might not talk about it, he can endorse Eddy doing whatever the fuck he wants. 

The wig got messier with time and Brett had bought him another, longer, cartoon yellow. Because for all his dry, caustic sort of humor, he could never come up with enough irony and dead set confidence to birth Edwina out of sea foam. 

As it is, Brett only sticks close to her, sweaty uncomfortable, waits Eddy out to work through this new issue that seems to be eating at his edges. For a whole week and some, it's the same routine, Edwina everywhere Brett turns, progressively more frantic and more dissatisfied. Eddy starts bouncing the table with his knee when they're on camera out of dramatic woe of separation for her. In a rare show of weakness, Brett calls him over to his house for their filming, hopes he can break him out of the hell circle. 

Something does change, but not the way he meant it. 

Edwina has been on for such a long time that she spontaneously turns back into Eddy, the two of them mushed together, disconcerting. She goes eventually, before Brett has the chance to develop nightmares narrated in her broken voice. Eddy must have figured out his problem somewhat, but the wig stays still, a while after, just him and a bundle of synthetic hair at his side. 

He turns up then with the nails on his left hand done up, bright green nail polish in his pocket, demands Brett to paint his right. 'You can ask if you want', an aggressive dare written across his face. He doesn't, because he's shit at talking reasonably when he's _so_ worried. (Not about the nail polish, that's dumb, about the shade of it, maybe, about the shape of his nails, definitely, but it's nothing his kit can't fix.) Brett only grasps loosely the wrist in his hand, struggles to color in bounds and by the time he needs to blow on his fingertips he's calmed down enough to be startled with the weight of Eddy's eyes on his bent shoulders, up his neck, dragging over his jawline. The pulse underneath his fingers is steadily way over ninety. Brett freezes, doesn't look up, almost wants to redden, the sensation foreign and intrusive and nothing like anyone ever got out of him. He wonders how he didn't notice artificial red tint on Eddy's mouth until now.

Eddy's nails are blank the next day, his lips familiarly pink, chapped, stretching over his smile and Brett knows he's been shut off for the first time since they were young.

It's all suspiciously quiet after, if Brett could ignore the restlessness sizzling under Eddy's skin. They've always played off each other best and so it's contagious, reverberating between them until Brett takes to going on aimless night walks anywhere from 1AM to 4AM. There's a sense of urgency, like he has something important to do, like he might be able to breathe again if only he could get it _done_. He's so tired it feels like an ache, his thoughts circling Eddy uselessly, unsure how to offer help in a way that makes sense for them both. Solving shit is his thing but this requires words he doesn't have. He feels too big for his skin. It's almost a blessing when his phone goes off, pointless wandering broken. It cuts off in a split second, but he calls back, allows Eddy to push through his chant of 'oh shit man, sorry, sorry, it's 3AM I forgot, ok sorry have a nice sleep' and promises to be over in a few.

Eddy's house is in insomnia mode when he gets there, soft glowing lights from everywhere but the ceiling, Debussy turned up to a volume unfit for sleeping. His kitchen though. He'd like to say it's straight out of Hell's Kitchen, but really it's more in the style of The Great Australian Bake Off, child version. Brett doesn't watch either, but Eddy talks at him a lot and some of it sticks just like the floury dough currently coating all his counter tops and big portions of the floor and the _walls_ , what the fuck. There's more cookie on Eddy's shirt than in the bowl he presses into Brett's hands.

'Take them, get out, I'm cleaning' and he's shooed off into the living room, hunted for compliments when Eddy shouts at his back 'I'm proud of them, change my mind.'

'You can't cook bro.'

'That's fair, but those are baked not cooked. It's a difference, hey.'

Brett almost falls for it, except his brain sees burnt cookie but his taste buds scream pasta? Rice balls? Seaweed? It's so _savory_ that his stomach braces itself for a whole night meal. 

He eats half the bowl. 

Eddy visibly winces when he pokes his head in, alarmed at his silence, brings him two pillows and crisp sheets to the tiny couch, turns off all the lights but leaves Debussy on. Brett drifts off to the sound of water running from the kitchen sink. 

He wakes some time later with the distinct certainty that he's being watched. It turns out he's alone in the living room, sunlight breaking gold at the bottom of the window, so he twists away from it, decides to catch up on sleep. 

The next time he comes to, it's because he's choking on smoke. Brett isn't sure how the hell he didn't get up from the smell of burning alone, it's too late for that and he can't find his glasses, almost upturns a cup of water on the coffee table. The thought that he doesn't remember getting it breaks his panic, he pats his way to the door and then to the window, opens them both. He can't see shit but can definitely hear Eddy barreling down the stairs three at a time, half screaming. 

'Holy fuck I forgot the bread! No, no, my bread, oh shit hhhhhhhng.' 

Frustration. 

His glasses are pushed onto his face a moment later with an excess of fingers and Eddy doesn't look right. He runs to the kitchen too quickly for Brett to pinpoint what's off with his face and then he stops thinking because Eddy's wailing and _christ, there's something literally on fire inside the oven_. 

They manage putting it off and amazingly, he doesn't even strangle Eddy in the end. The smoke doesn't let up at all though, they have go outside on the porch, barefoot, to cough out their left lung. Eddy can't fucking cook but he isn't careless about anything he does. He starts coughing louder when Brett tries asking for an explanation, then mumbles dodgy excuses while forcing please-believe-me eye contact, then completely changes strategy and says that he only meant to take a short nap while the bread was baking. Brett doesn't buy any of it. 

They film enough content for three videos and it's enough to completely bake Brett's brain as well, combined with the gratuitous adrenaline he's being served lately. He crawls to his home, into his much craved bed. Frustratingly, it isn't as satisfying in reality as he thought it'd be. Eddy's weird, second-hand tension curls around his spine in a matter of seconds, he can't decide if he's too hot or too cold, can't find any good position, can't keep up with this instant hypersensitivity. He needs something. He doesn't know what, but if this goes on any longer he'll never sleep again. His hands make their way into his pants almost on their own. 

He looks down and brings them back up, freaked out over nothing. Eddy had been wanking this morning. 

Brett sure wishes he didn't know what his best friend looks like with his dick in his hands, but in thirteen years of knowing someone, it's always been inevitable. Brett had walked on him the first time by mistake when he was nineteen, stood in the doorway for about three seconds out of frozen embarrassment, squeaked out 'sorry that's alright', which is a weird thing to say in that situation anyway, and slammed the door shut. They joke about that stuff, but he'd never _seen_ before. The nice little chat he had with Mrs.Chen over tea immediately downstairs was excruciating in ways uncharted. 

Eddy's face from this morning blends right into that memory, the flush going down into his neckline, his red ears and wet, bitten mouth, lower lip puffed out with his uneven breathing, the sweat at his hairline, the scrunched hand print in his T-shirt over his stomach. His eyes as he looked down at Brett, the same caught out expression. Brett's glasses in his hand shouldn't be a part of that. 

He doesn't touch himself. He doesn't sleep. 

Eddy keeps baking, keeps feeding him all his experiments, he even steals an apron from his mum. It has tiny sheep on it. Brett eats, because he's confused, because he wants to be supportive, eats whatever, eats even if nothing tastes like what it looks to be. Neither of them sleep anymore and it's dizzying, not having at least one of them function normally.

And then Eddy is buying him stuff all of a sudden. It starts small, first boba and coffee, then snowballs into rosin, random fruits, a nyan cat pink T-shirt, a new toothbrush, animal stickers, lens wipes. Small inconsequential things, every few days, sometimes frantic, in a row. Brett's almost surprised he didn't get a second viola yet. 

His brain can't compute much these days, but taking Eddy out to the zoo seems like a satisfactory payback. They don't bring their violins, end up regretting it because they could've found out if the kangaroos like Bach. Brett pets every single jumping menace he can get his hands on, drags Eddy around and doesn't let him take out his wallet for absolutely nothing. They doze off into half sleep on a bench sat side by side, propped up against each other. Or so he thought. As soon as his body goes lax, Eddy turns his shoulders towards him, one arm supporting his back, moves slowly so that he can tuck Brett's head under his chin and doesn't squeeze, just holds on. Doesn't really touch. 

He isn't sure how he knows, but Eddy is watching his hands, his stare tracing the outline of the bones in his wrist. His open palms in his lap are getting sweaty with the effort of staying pliant. 

So Eddy had his glasses with him when he was rubbing one out and Eddy is feeding him and buying him stuff and Eddy is cuddling him as he sleeps, in public. So what. Brett isn't going to run away from this on just assumptions. He isn't going to run. Not from this one person that he's loved for half his life. It might not be the kind of love that Eddy craves out of him but it's not _nothing_.

Eventually, Eddy lets him go, pushes him sharply to the other side. Brett reacts properly, jumps and flails as if he wasn't awake the entire time just because he saw through his eyelashes the shit eating grin on his friend's face.

There's nothing inherently different, now that Brett has an idea what to watch out for. It's how they've always been, only unbalanced and desperate and too fast on Eddy's side. Neither of them has any idea what to do. Brett is swamped over in dubious food and slightly thoughtful groceries and Eddy's limbs in his space. Eddy is losing weight, lives off coffee more than anything. Neither sleeps.

It just so happens that Brett runs into both their mothers at the market. Together, his mum holding gingerly onto Mrs.Chen's bent arm, whispering not at all conspicuous, matching little frowns in between their eyebrows. Brett is here only because his mum needed eggplant immediately, at this exact hour. 

'Is this because I'm older than Eddy?' 

It earns him dry chuckles and they both hug him. Eddy's mum is taller than him by just a bit and he feels fourteen again, about to be told off over their scrapped knees and hands. It isn't fair, he doesn't have the capacity to withhold this... this goddamn _intervention_ , not the way he is now. If they turn to Mandarin he's done, dead, deceased. His mum takes pity on him, squeezes his forearm with purpose. 

'Brett, you boys are doing good. Only, we worry over your health. Looking after each other is also part of work, yes?' 

'My son sounds about the way you look, you know. You are grown up now and you do what you want, please be responsible. Let us help, if you need.' She stops, thinks for a second about how to pacify him. 'I liked the video with Phoebe, if Eddy told you maybe. You didn't learn anything on the double bass but it was entertaining seeing you struggle with an instrument again.' She has the same self satisfied grin Eddy gets during roasts and Brett will break down if he doesn't escape this soon. 

They seem to sense his discomfort, take him between them for a couple of rounds around the market, talk enough that he doesn't have to. They kiss his cheeks and ruffle his hair before they let him go, he stammers out something that resembles 'we'll sort it out, don't worry' and his mum says 'you will' with trust he doesn't have. 

When he gets home his phone vibrates with a number of memes from Belle followed by a text that reads 'it used to be funny, but not anymore because you're both being stupid. do something.' 

He was going to cry anyway so he's relieved he doesn't have to do it multiple times. It takes hours to get himself together, his eyelids are puffy, closing on their own. In the dark they provide, he sees Eddy watching him hungrily. The inside of his head burns, his skull pressing too close. The light hurts him and he's starting to wonder how long until he dies from this. He hasn't looked at himself in the mirror since two days ago. He still doesn't sleep. 

Edwina is back the next morning and Brett could cry with happiness, if he had any tears left. He has his arms around her the second she opens the door to let him in, buries his face in her left shoulder, walks her backwards to the couch. They land a mess of limbs, but arrange themselves easily enough, Edwina half over him and she pulls a thin blanket on top of them. Eddy is going to take this the wrong way, that Brett is attracted to his crisis persona, that he prefers him with a wig, but god. Brett feels comfortable. Her sharper angles drag all over him and the couch pillows feel like they're sucking him in. Everything smells of Eddy. For the first time in weeks, he's elated to rest. She's giving them respite, to think.

Brett wakes up much later, in the night. He's tangled up in the blanket and he doesn't move, keeps his breathing even, opens his eyes enough that he can adjust but not enough for the light from the street to reflect off them. Eddy is watching him from the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, close. He has his headphones on and he's fidgeting with Brett's glasses. It's sort of weird because Brett can't see his face, until Eddy starts humming quietly the piece he's listening to. His throat sounds wet. 

It's Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto and Brett's heart in his chest squeezes. 

He clamps down his hand around Eddy's wrist, luckily makes contact before he chickens out, holds on even if he jumps five feet in the air, earns himself _screeching_ that probably punctures something in his ears. He catches the glasses with his left. 

'That's fucked dude, I think I peed myself. Far out, holy shit.' Eddy slaps his hand away shakily about ten times and yeah, by the pulse Brett feels he isn't entirely joking. He doesn't try holding in his laughter, pulls the dumbass back on the couch, over him. His giggles die on his tongue as Eddy reaches for his wig dropped on the floor. 

'No, don't.' He's so close Brett can see the wet tracks on his face, can see his jaw tightening at that, his expression changing in between blinks. 

'Then I'm going back to my bed, you smell funny.' 

'I know you use Edwina to get away with shit. It's just a wig.' 

'Oh so what, you say you'll fuck-' He catches himself, doesn't say it and the anger melts off when Brett runs his hand down his back trying to soothe, half thankful. He says 'stay' and Eddy groans frustrated by his ear, into the pillow. It's easy after, to fit together, once the tension seeps out of them. Eddy bundles himself to his right side, face down in his shoulder, arm heavy at the bottom of his rib cage. Brett's leg is on top of his ass in retaliation and he keeps patting over his spine for a long time. 

Eddy falls asleep first. 

Brett follows, once he's burned the curve of Eddy's waist into his palm, the width of his shoulders, once he feels Eddy's mouth brush over his collarbone in his sleep, once he knows how Eddy's hip pushes into his hand while he tries to get comfortable. 

He doesn't want Eddy like that. 

He doesn't even know what Eddy wants in truth, but there's one thing that they can agree on easily when they're properly conscious, eating something not baked at four in the afternoon. It's so freeing to have slept that Brett feels his entire body lighter, the pull of muscles comforting, like he's filling himself back to the edges again. It's in Eddy's face as well, the shock of being outside his mind for a change, and Brett decides they've had enough. He wants to sleep normally. 

'Come over at mine this week, yeah? We'll change back to here after, see how it goes.'

It takes a bit for Eddy to come from his zone-out on his spoon, it's mostly out of laziness. 'Yeah? We're moving in together already? So indecent, Bretty.' He tries for a straight face but that word hits Brett wrong and he doesn't have time to control his fear. It shows and Eddy has to force out laughter, wiggle his eyebrows to lessen the awkwardness. This is so hard already. 

Brett looks pointedly at him until he says 'yeah, fuck it, I want to sleep too' and that's that. 

Of course it isn't. They've both gone through pining over too many people who never looked at them twice, Brett can relate to what must be happening behind Eddy's eyes with no difficulty at all. It _eats_ at him. They're together all the time now and he sees everything, the hangdog expression when Eddy follows after him aimlessly, the open relief when they touch casually, the badly concealed want that blankets everything, heavy, heavy and close held. 

Nothing changes. They film and brainstorm video ideas, play Smash, go out for coffee, for the occasional food cravings, they talk normally, rant when they each watch different shows on the couch in the evening. Eddy even brings back the newlyweds jokes, finally starts eating right and working out the way he did before. He bleeds hurt in every gesture and Brett can't escape hearing him practice Sibelius repertoire with the door locked.

It's so much worse at night. There's no rhythm to how Eddy comes to watch him. Most of the time he slides down the wall by the door, head in his hands, has the quietest existential crisis Brett has ever heard. He never cries. It should be freaky, but it isn't, he wonders when he's gotten used to drifting off with that stare on him. Some mornings they wake up in the same bed, cold on opposite sides, either in his room or on the downstairs couch, and there's nothing _indecent_ about the way Brett reaches over to cover Eddy's open eyes with his hand, the way he trails down until he can feel the heart in his chest.

Eddy is so far gone that he just lets him. 

Brett is scared out of his fucking mind. The days bleed together and nothing changes. Edwina stays away. They sleep well and they function and they laugh together and _he is hurting Eddy holy shit_. 

He's always felt responsible for Eddy when they were kids. 

Brett is-

Brett tries to- 

Brett wants Eddy to just-

Brett is laying on his back in his bed. It's just after sundown but the heat outside doesn't let up, his shirt sticks uncomfortably to his back. He doesn't have it in him to turn on the AC. Eddy is down on the floor, leaning on the wall, on the wrong side, outside his open door. Brett can hear him breathe. His best friend. 

It does something to him. He thinks _I want him happy_ and then his mind floods. 

He needs to do this, whatever this might be. He doesn't know, but he'll wing it.

Brett only comes back to himself once he has Eddy crowded against the wall, one hand closed carefully around his wrist, the other one pulling his leg over his own in a loose cross-legged position. And then he's watching with removed excitement how his left thumb goes way, way higher than is _friendly_ over Eddy's knee, how it stops on the inseam on his pants right at the top and _pushes_. Eddy squeaks, decidedly not hot, though his voice breaks at the end in a sort of whine and that. Well. Maybe. 

'Fuck, fuck, Brett. It's not just a sex thing.' Eddy winces, swallows dry, says 'you shouldn't, like, push yourself if-' 

'I want to', said quickly because he does, in a roundabout way. Brett isn't really into this but there's a possibility that he could be, with how his chest feels now he's reached out and touched. 'I can love you, it's not hard, but the other stuff-... I've never, I don't-', the words get mixed up, he tries again. 'I need to see. Thinking about it isn't helping any and you want it.' 

Eddy's 'I do not' sounds so ridiculously offended that it startles surprised giggles out of them both.

'Dude, you're hard from just that. Let me?' 

Eddy is half nodding already as he speaks, curses some more, grasps his right hand, squeezes, sneaks one of his legs behind Brett to pull him closer. His thighs open wider with the motion and Brett's left presses down further reflexively. It can't be comfortable, at that angle, but Eddy's trembling isn't from exertion. 

Their words keep replaying in Brett's head, something he's said was. It wasn't _not_ intended. He has to let go a bit so that he can get Eddy's pants out of the way, he struggles and the elastic band pisses him off. If he's not careful it's going to press and rub into, uh, into-

How the hell is he going to touch Eddy's dick if he can't bring himself to think of it. 

Brett kinda knew the size difference from that one time he got an eyeful, but he's immensely relieved that Eddy's head is thrown back because he really, really isn't sure where to look anymore. Both his hands are immediately sweaty, his whole body burning.

Somehow, mercifully, there's a cold hand pushing his wet fringe away, thick fingers running through his hair. He hasn't got a haircut lately.

 _He'd said_. I can love you. It's not hard. 

Eddy comes forward, spine curved enough that he fits over Brett's collarbone, forces his head up and makes that decision for him. He wants to be good to Eddy. 

Brett touches him then, wraps both his hands around him, braces for his own limbs to betray him and recoil. There are veins under his fingers and their skin sticks, _drags_ when he starts moving. The reaction is instant, and violent. His entire life, everything he ever did, every word between them, since he first looked to his right in maths tutoring, it was all so that he can now have this one moment, Eddy's moaning right in his ear, the jerk of his hips deeper into his hand, the vibrations going through his body like shock waves.

Eddy's everything suddenly becomes filthy hot. Brett's mouth waters. He knows this, he's always needed the other person's pleasure more than his own. He wants Eddy to be happy. Same difference.

Except nothing is the same, he's never wanted to see this before, he's never had Eddy trashing in his arms like this, the muscles in his shoulders jumping with the effort of holding still. Brett fists one hand in Eddy's T-shirt over his abdomen, the place he remembers from all those years ago, thinks better of it, opens his palm and sinks his fingers into Eddy's stomach viciously. It sounds like dry sobbing in the span of a few breaths, Brett worries he's actually brought him to convulsions, too much too fast, before Eddy is pushing his waist forward, makes his belly softer intentionally for his fingers to push deeper in, the noises in his throat wicked. 

Eddy isn't capable of speech anymore, he tries saying fuck four times before he gives up, settles for whimpering as Brett licks under his jaw, bites at his ear, changes the grip on his dick to cover as much as possible. His hand is too small for this and his need to please flowers caged between his ribs. Eddy's skin tastes salty, like those first cookies, it fills Brett's mouth. He can't control the depth of his own growling.

I can love you. He'd said, _it's not hard_.

He keeps a steady rhythm, twists his wrist, adjust the pressure until Eddy is incoherent into his shoulder, until he's off the floor and halfway into his lap. Eddy's face comes up close enough to lick and Brett only has a second to process his knowing smile, the velvet red inside his slick mouth, before there's hands on him, one over his hip, bruising, the other one pressing over his dick, lightly, a threat. 

His glasses mist over from Eddy's heated breathing and with all their limbs otherwise occupied, Eddy pulls them off using his teeth, growls and throws them gently with a jerky little head turn.

They're both laughing when Eddy comes. He completely loses track of what he was meaning to do, his body tenses over and over again, fists tight in Brett's shirt over his chest. His giggles turn into something else and his words are broken but Brett can hear it, 'I love you' and 'holy shit how did you know to do that' and 'don't let me go'. 

Brett had said.

Brett watches everything, this first thing between them, goes down on his back easy when his dumbass collapses over him. He's jolted out of his dreams of a bigger house and seven puppies and baking sweet cookies by Eddy's insistent thigh rubbing over his crotch, swipes at his ass to make him stop.

'You're still up though? I think about your mouth a lot, so maybe that next. Or whatever, let's just do it again.'

'No, let me have my gay panic in peace, my brain can't... you look-' 

The thought freezes, solidifies in his mind as Eddy kisses him, careful and wet and meticulous, like he's running over a passage in practice. His taste is nothing different from his smell, familiarly comforting, still new. Brett thinks _I hope Tchaikovsky went and got it eventually_ and whoa, that's disturbing. Eddy feels his laughter in his mouth, swallows it down, lets him go, immediately whines 'pay attention to me' and 'is it gay panic if you're not gay?' and Brett doesn't feel guilty at all when he tickles him to tears. He doesn't want to explain why his eyes are wet as well, so he hides his face in Eddy's hair, lets himself be cradled and petted until he settles down. 

_Brett had said. I can love you. It's not hard._

Eddy falls first, then Brett follows.

**Author's Note:**

> so, a few things.  
> 1.have you seen brett's nails?? i'm having a breakdown every time i glimpse them, what does he use??? i cry  
> 2\. i lost control on this one, if it wasn't obvious enough  
> 3\. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) is this angst? is this porn? what rating do i use? i sure don't know, because it's my first time!!! i panicked  
> 4\. if i was a russian man in the 1850s i'd be so into daddy Tchaikovsky


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